Like Summer

I. Month-end, so you know. The usual omgeverythingisdueallatoncedoom.

II. I keep somehow managing to deliver what was promised despite the state of things and I am proud of that, but also wondering about the state of my innards given that things are what they are, and yet I keep my promises. Is that proof of something virtuous? Proof of something fucking traumatized? I don’t know. I know that I take great pride in delivering what I promise. Maybe because I’ve experienced the consequences of so many broken promises.

III. I keep my promises.

IV. I’m leaning on that being a virtue. If it isn’t, I’ll deal with it later.

V. I got slammed with a storm a few days ago. I was showing a friend a journal because I wanted her to see how I use the planner I’ve been designing. The journal fell open to a page upon which I’d pasted his photo – the one he sent to me back in February 2019. I said “I miss your face” and he responded with a photo of his face, cigarette dangling from his lip, snow falling down around him. There is a look in his eyes that is undeniably loving and tender, and when my eyes fell upon this image my whole body rose up. I felt all the things at once. Longing. Grief. Denial. Anger. My stomach flipped. Sounds came out of my mouth unbidden, and I clasped my hands to my face as if to stop them but they were an oncoming train and trains don’t stop on a dime. They just barrel on through with all their rattle and noise like storms.

VI. I’m still riding the wave of all of that. I miss him like summer.

VII. Meanwhile, I am wandering around the house adorned with silver nails and white chemises, doing my best to keep all my promises.

VIII. It’s been quite a row to hoe of late. I’m okay, and I am so grateful for so many things, but I am also just barely holding my guts in most days, so I do what I can, but I’m not inclined to push.

IX. I do what I can. It keeps my body and soul together, and I’m never hungry or hunted.

X. Haunted, though. That’s another story.

I miss you like summer. 






Grackle Heart

Photo by Cassie Burke on Unsplash

Grackle Heart

Somewhere between my throat
and sit bones
there are questions
fluttering, beating
like jewelled black wings.

When did my ribs become a cage?
When did I swallow the key?
Where’s the lock? What are the answers?

It’s all on the tip of my tongue
but I can’t find my voice either.

Not today.

Every enchantment
I’ve come to count on –
roosting grackles,
groves of alder,
the light in my own eyes
at sun rise & set,
magentapurpleindigo skies,
that song, all the songs

are all locked up here
in this cave of bone
and all that’s left to do now
is wonder
when I’ll hear the door open,
feel that rusty hinge sing
in my ears,

wonder when
if ever,
I will get to
fly home
at last.

Effy Bird Wild


Today is a little better but I don’t have the bandwidth for ten things. Just one or two.

I. I typed all the words into the void last night and had a nice, long crying jag. Rolled myself into my blankets and went to sleep. Got up this morning and declared it a blanket fort day. Threw a little paint. Spent some time with one of my beloveds on Zoom. We are in pretty much the same place and it was good to be seen and understood and to hear the words “I totally get it.” I know her story so I know she totally gets it.

II. My FB memories are fucking killing me right now.


There are words
we don’t use,
words we left behind.

Like ‘cleft’
which signifies a split
but also means
to part,
to sever,

especially along
a natural line.

Act 3 – Scene 4
Maybe you know it in this context –

“Thou hast cleft my heart in twain.’

It’s not a romantic line,
but, still, it has its place in this
since I have split my heart
in two.


I know it like that,
and I know it like this.

The way wood
cleaves to the axe
the way the heart of fire
must be parted,
half from half,
to be revealed.

I cling, I cleave
to an orphaned language,
and I am living In this line –

I am the wood,
I am the axe,
and my heart
is cleft in twain.

October 14, 2018

III. Tuna subs from Subway are medicine when you’re depressed and can’t eat.

IV. A favourite moment.

V. A favourite painting from two years ago.

You Make It Your Own

I. I Journal Jammed yesterday and though I was pretty quiet (very heartstricken of late, apologies), I did make something pretty kickin’ even though I wasn’t feeling very ‘inspired’.

The first one was the actual spread, and the second one was made on the page I was using as a palette. I love working that way because I get more bang for my buck and there’s no paint left behind.

II. I blew a lot of bubbles yesterday.

I keep hoping the dogs will get into it, but they are completely disinterested. Oh well.

III. Space and renovations. Big fucking hammer. Twin stuff. The tender way he pulls my chosen name out of his pocket once in a while and offers it to me with love. Hope springs eternal. Etc. #cryptic

IV. The thing about planting seeds is that it is such an enormous act of faith. You put these little things that look like nothing in pots of dirt and you water and wait and water and wait and maybe something happens and maybe nothing happens. 

Most of the time, at least my gardening friends tell me, something happens. I am not so sure. I am side-eyeing these little pots and hoping something is going on in there but highly doubting it and when I get my first sprout I swear I might cry because yes this is a metaphor for something.

Of course, it is.

Everything is a metaphor for something.

I want these seeds to sprout. I want my faith to be rewarded.

V. Alone: Tales From The Artic. I finished it yesterday and now I’m like WHAT NOW FFS I CANNOT BE ALONE WITH MY THOUGHTS FOR ONE SECOND WITHOUT LOSING MY MIND.

VI. So the search for a new series is on. Or maybe I’ll rewatch The Fall because hanging out with this woman might just be the thing right now.

VII. I have a class to attend today at noon and a support group to attend tonight at seven, so that’s today, and I’m okay with that. In before and in between these things, work has been happening and will happening and I’m okay with that, too. See above re: a moment alone with my thoughts = eternal primal screaming.

VIII. I found this poem that I’d forgotten I’d written in my memories and it made me cry because it’s good and it’s fucking true.

You Make It Your Own

You think of these things,
smudge bowl,
the fire
you think
you might like to tend
by yourself,
for yourself,
As some kind of tragedy,
As though your hand,
striking the match,
your eyes,
your own senses,
are not enough.
And then a night comes on
as strong as nights do
when the earth turns toward autumn
and you stamp your foot against the damp earth
and say to the dew-soaked gloaming
‘The mist is as much mine
to bear
as any one’s
and so is mine
the power to banish it
with match,
and candle,
and light, and heat.
So, there.’
You strike the match
and maybe it takes a while,
and maybe it takes
a hundred matches,
but you take
that night in your
own hands,
and for once,
you make it
your own.
IX. I’m making it my own.
X. Silence has always been the way to wound me.